If You Save Your Heart for Mine
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "They were slowly making this apartment theirs again." A rainy night, post-custody.


The rain started just after dinner, as they were washing up. It was early spring, and the rains had been common ever since the snows had stopped, but even so, they both paused in their work and enjoyed the downpour, as if it were rare. For them, it was—neither had seen rain since they'd been released from Bureau custody a three weeks before.

Jane was the first to quit the kitchen and head to the front door. When Oscar heard it open, he followed behind, smiling when he found her sitting on the front stoop, her bare feet dangling out onto the bottom step, where the rain could reach and soak her toes. Without a word, he took off his shoes and socks and sat down beside her, letting the rain hit his feet as well.

Neither said anything as the rain continued to fall, because nothing needed to be said. They were on the same page, thinking the same thing: _I forgot how good this could feel_.

He was the first to stretch his feet out further. He rolled up the hem of his jeans and laid his ankles against the middle step, where more of the rain could be felt. She followed suit. And then she put her hands out into the rain. Her head. Then she got to her feet and walked out into it.

"You'll catch a cold, Jane," he warned when she sat down on the wet sidewalk, but she shook her head, pushing aside his worries.

For a minute he watched, staring down at her from the dry top step as the downpour soaked her hair, her sweater, her jeans, every part of her. He pictured it seeping into her skin, mixing with her blood, surrounding her bones. For some reason, it made her seem powerful. It made her seem at peace.

When he got up and sat down next to her, she looked over at him with a smile. As the rain soaked him, too, she laid her head on his shoulder, and took his hand in hers. She curled their fingers together until they interlaced, their joined sets of knuckles forming a sort of curved, two-tiered spine.

More than a few passersby, tucked safely underneath umbrellas and raincoats, stared at them as they sat out in the rain unprotected, but neither Jane nor Oscar paid much attention. None of those people knew what it was like to be locked up, with no sunlight, no fresh air, no rain, no grass, no sky, nothing. None of them knew what it was like to be without a future, to be locked in one tiny space for what very well might be the rest of their lives. They didn't know what it was like to be cut off from nature.

Oscar closed his eyes and tilted his head back as far as it would go. He let the rain pelt down on him, sharp as hail at that angle, and smiled in spite of it. In seconds, his hair was soaked cold and hanging down past his ears. He smiled when he felt her reach a hand out and squeeze the ends, as if to wring the water out. He reached over and did the same to her, feeling the slippery softness of her dark locks sliding through his fingers. His hand fell to her back, then, and rested there in the middle of it. He was growing cold—too cold—but he didn't say a word to her about it. If she wanted to stay out here, he would stay with her.

For many minutes more, they did. They sat cross-legged beside one another, huddled close, and submitted themselves to the wonder and power of the rain. She nestled her head on his shoulder, and in return, he pressed his lips to the watery crown of her head. When she moved closer, fully into his arms, shivering uncontrollably from the cold now, he held her and gave her what he knew she wanted: just a minute more, out here in the world. Just a minute more, celebrating one of the simple pleasures that had nearly been taken from them forever.

"I love you," he whispered amidst the storm, taking a second to press one more kiss to the top of her head. Her only response was to squeeze his hand tighter, and lean into him just a bit more.

She had not said the words back yet—not in this new life, at least—and she did not say them now, either, but it made no matter to him. Right now, he didn't need to hear it. All he had to do was remember what they had been through together these past few months, what she had done for him, how she had fought for him, and he knew what she felt even if she couldn't say it aloud yet: he knew she loved him. If he had to wait to hear it—be it a day or a month or the rest of his life—he would wait. She was one thing he had no qualms about spending another lifetime on, be it in the rain or the sun. They had learned how to live with both.

"Let's get inside," he said finally, when her shivering got so bad that it set off his.

She didn't argue as he drew her to her feet, and in a few moments they were back inside, door shut against the elements, bodies still shaking but starting to thaw. Oscar stood on the indoor welcome mat, doing his best to keep his puddle off the carpet, while Jane walked barefoot to the kitchen to turn off the light. For a few seconds, darkness surrounded them completely, illuminated only by the occasional flashes of lightning, and it wasn't until she came over and kissed him that he realized there was a point to turning off the light that always bled into the entryway.

She kissed him long and slow, carefully pulling him deeper into the living room with each brush of her lips against his, and he followed after her happily. He forgot about his soaking wet clothes; he forgot about keeping the carpet clean. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close, and forgot about everything else.

Kissing her here, like this, reminded him of all the hours they'd spent in this room after being released, struggling to put their life back together. It reminded him of how they'd ran up the stoop that first afternoon they'd been freed, so eager to come home—only to see it all, every last item in their possession, shut away in official FBI evidence boxes, labeled with the time, date, and location of acquisition, and cinched closed with bright red _Evidence_ tape wrapped around every side.

A minute before, just outside the door, she had been elated—they were _free_ , they were _home_ —but the moment she saw that mountain of boxes she began to cry. He hadn't known exactly why—fear, anger, relief, violation?—but it didn't matter. He'd pulled her close for a hug, pivoting them so her back was to the boxes, and he promised her that they'd get it sorted. They'd figured it out together; they'd return to their life before. Maybe they'd even make it better. _The place needed reorganizing anyway, don't you think?_ he'd joked, and then he'd almost cried himself, in relief, when she'd laughed at his weak attempt at humor. He knew then that, no matter how much was in front of them, they'd tackle it together and they'd succeed.

Even after days of unpacking, few of their belongings returned to their original places, but that didn't matter. They didn't force themselves to remember exactly where everything had belonged before. They both knew the danger of recreating a life already lived. The inherent impossibility of it. So they let go of the old, and they tried for something new.

 _We'll figure it out,_ she had promised him that first night, when they finally set aside the boxes and headed in to bed. _You and me._

They made love that first night on a bare mattress, not having been able to find bedsheets in any of the boxes they'd unpacked. It had been a quiet celebration, almost silent, save for the rasps of their breaths and the creak of the aged bed frame beneath them. He had held back that night from saying the three words, but with every breath he took, he passed them on to her. With every kiss and every touch. He knew she felt them: knew it in the way her hands pulled on his hair and scraped at his back; knew it in the way that the only time she spoke, it was to whisper his name; knew it in the way that when, even after they were finished, she would not allow him to move even an inch away from her, for fear of losing him forever once they disentangled.

 _I'm not going anywhere,_ he had whispered, holding her. _I'm safe here with you. I'm right here. I will always be right here._

Weeks had passed now, since that first night, but sometimes those words surfaced again. Sometimes they were needed: During the dark of nights, when neither could sleep because of nightmares. During the early mornings, when she left for work without him, going back to that place that had imprisoned her just as many times as it had freed her. During the rainy evenings, when the cold scared him and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking as they touched.

"Don't worry," she whispered now, between kisses, as she slipped her hands beneath his wet long-sleeve and skimmed her fingertips over the damp skin underneath. "I'll warm you up."

He laughed at that, helping her to peel off his wet clothing and cast it aside. The shirt fell to the carpet with a wet _thump_ , expanding the puddle they'd begun minutes ago, but neither bothered to think about it. When he straightened again, and pulled her close once more, she held him back a moment with a hand on his now-bare chest. Her other hand rose to his face, where she cupped his damp cheek, and brushed her thumb against his skin. Through the dark, he could see her smile.

"I love hearing you laugh," she whispered. "I'm so thankful you haven't forgotten how."

She took his hand then, gently, almost shyly, and tugged on it to lead them back towards the bedroom. She moved slowly, turning on the hall light as she went, and he knew why. She wanted to admire the new additions to their apartment.

The first thing she had done, once they'd been released from custody, was go to the nearest convenience store. He went along with her, assuming she'd needed something: food or painkillers or any one of the million other things they sold at Duane Reades all around the city. But when she'd walked up to the cash register, she'd only had one thing in her hand: a disposable camera. He asked her what in the world she was going to do with that, and she answered with a click, grinning from behind the yellow-and-black camera as she pointed it at him. He snatched it from her immediately, and they took turns photographing each other the rest of the day.

Now, the walls were covered with framed memories of that first day of recovered freedom: walking through the park, eating lunch on the High Line, returning to her (now their) neighborhood. There was even a shot of their first dinner in their partially-unpacked apartment: Chinese take-out boxes, cheap red wine, and a store-bought _Happy birthday_ cake. It had been the only one available at the supermarket, but even if there had been other options, he still thinks she would've bought it anyway. She bought candles, too, and made him blow them out, even though his birthday wasn't for another half-year. When he extinguished them all in one go, she whispered that it was good luck, and even in the darkness, he had been able to see the hope for the future shining in her eyes.

He could see that hope again now, as she shut the bedroom door behind them, and pulled him close once more, her mouth seeking his as if lost without its touch. He grinned when he felt her start to back him towards the bed, and he acquiesced willingly when she pushed him down onto it. He sat and watched, smile spread wide, as she peeled off her wet clothes. It started seductive and then just turned into a mess—her jeans were molded to her legs, and not in a way that, after five minutes of struggling, was in any way sexy. She ended up in a tangled heap on the floor, laughing at her own helplessness, as he slid off the bed and joined her. With only minor difficulty, he helped her pull the pants off from where they were stuck around her calves and ankles; a minute later, she returned the favor in kind.

"I thought… The bed..." he tried to murmur, when she pushed him back onto the carpet and settled above his waist. He eyed the comfortable mattress a foot away hopefully, but she grinned and shook her head.

"Here," she whispered, bending over to kiss him. "Right here."

He didn't argue after that. He _never_ argued with anything she said when she was naked. By this point, he suspected she probably knew that fact—and exploited it—but he wasn't in a position to care at this very moment. She could exploit him however she liked when it came to this particular activity.

Afterward, when they were curled up together side-by-side, he couldn't resist. He tipped his forehead against hers, causing her to yawn softly and open her eyes. He was smiling when she met his gaze. Even in the darkness, her mind slow with sleep and satisfaction, she could see it. She could predict what he was going to say. And she did not look away.

"I love you," he whispered to her again, simply out of pure joy, and she smiled back.

Her hand that had been wrapped around his back moved to his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. She scooted a little close to him. When she took a breath in, she inhaled his air. Then exhaled. She cupped the side of his jaw very gently with a couple fingers, and stroked her thumb against the skin of his cheek. She leaned closer until their noses touched, their lips brushed.

"I love you too," she whispered back.


End file.
